


hello, hello, american boy

by seinmit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1990s, Anal Fingering, Asshole Spanking, Brainwashing, Cock & Ball Torture, Cold War Typical American Asshole, Facial Shaving, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Objectification, Rough Sex, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23603971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit
Summary: Pierce wouldn’t deny that the Information Age had changed the world—a Tomahawk missile cowed more efficiently when it flashed on television, after all. But, no matter how much artillery a man had to point at his enemies, he still needed his sidearm to keep his person safe. Pierce had some big guns, but he could use the Soldier to solidify his place in HYDRA, and then use that place to keep the world on track.That, and it would be nice to be able to play without having to go to fucking Siberia.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Alexander Pierce
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	hello, hello, american boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elpollodiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpollodiablo/gifts).



> Title from the poem [American Boys, Hello!](https://poets.org/poem/american-boys-hello), by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Sorry, Ella, for turning your sweet World War I era poem horrible.
> 
> There's the whole litany of the usual HTP warnings about Bucky being dehumanized and brutalized, but I'd add an additional one for homophobia (perhaps internalized), one sentence of objectifying sex workers, and some deeply obnoxious opinions about the Cold War and Russians generally. Pierce is a douchebag.
> 
> Many thanks to G. and B. for reading this over for me.

> Oh! we love all the French, and we speak in French  
>  As along through France we go.  
>  But the moments to us that are keen and sweet  
>  Are the ones when our khaki boys we meet,  
>  Stalwart and handsome and trim and neat;  
>  And we call to them—‘Boys, hello!’  
>  ‘Hello, American boys,  
>  Luck to you, and life’s best joys!  
>  American boys, hello!’
> 
> We couldn’t do that if we were at home—  
>  It never would do, you know!  
>  For there you must wait till you’re told who’s who,  
>  And to meet in the way that nice folks do.  
>  Though you knew his name, and your name he knew—  
>  You never would say ‘Hello, hello, American boy!’  
>  But here it’s just a joy,  
>  As we pass along in the stranger throng,  
>  To call out, ‘Boys, hello!’
> 
> For each is a brother away from home;  
>  And this we are sure is so,  
>  There’s a lonesome spot in his heart somewhere,  
>  And we want him to feel there are friends right there  
>  In this foreign land, and so we dare  
>  To call out ‘Boys, hello!’  
>  ‘Hello, American boys,  
>  Luck to you, and life’s best joys!  
>  American boys, hello!’
> 
> —"American Boys, Hello!" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

### Novosibirsk, 1993

It might be the Russian Federation now, but the trick of diplomacy among the Soviets was still to come with gifts. Gorbachev’s reforms at the 1988 Party Conference made it no longer political suicide to publicly enjoy Western comforts, yet the economic conditions for the ordinary people and even mid-level Party apparatchiks were still tenuous enough that they couldn’t actually afford the luxuries they craved. From the moment Pierce landed in Leningrad—or St. Petersburg, whatever—he was handing out candy bars, expensive watches, cigars, bottles of scotch. He was like Santa Claus, dispensing delicacies to all the good little boys and girls.

In Siberia, the bribes and gifts were even more effective. Goods that were reasonably commonplace in the rest of Russia were scarce—even cigarettes, that most important of staples. Pierce carried a leather briefcase with no papers in it everywhere he went, full of goodies for important officials. God, they all hated the American walking around, flaunting his wealth and access. It made him smile.

Beware of Americans bearing gifts. He wasn't concerned with the delicate sheen of amusement on his face—the Russians were always dour and he was expected to play his part, to be the American bringing sunny disregard to this remote hellhole. 

Shave-and-a-haircut, he knocked on General Lukin’s door—mostly because it made Lukin mad. He didn’t wait to be invited in, because it was essential to remind everyone here that Pierce wasn’t in their chain of command. Pierce wore a suit that cost more money than any of these people would see in a lifetime. 

Lukin’s face was carved from granite, but Pierce could smell the scowl underneath the facade, like mildew. Maybe it was actual mildew, though—this place was falling apart around them. 

And yet, he reached into his bag and brought out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black—had to go for the brand name, in situations like this. 

"I had hoped this would be to celebrate the success of your project," he lied. The bottle clinked against the steel of Lukin’s desk. "But whiskey can help console, too—it’s versatile that way." 

Lukin’s eyes flickered from the bottle to Pierce’s face. He stood up and walked to the cabinet on the wall and got out two glasses with efficient movements. Pierce raised his eyebrows at his back, pleased and surprised. Oh, he must be furious to want to drink it right away. This really had been a disappointment. 

His face was schooled into mild-mannered neutrality by the time Lukin had sat back down. He poured a finger for each of them, and Pierce watched him contemplatively take a sip, swirling it around. At least the vessel was glass instead of the dented metal that everything else around here was made of. Pierce waited. 

"The soldiers are in cryo again." 

"All of them?" Pierce said, maybe too quickly. 

Lukin’s gaze did not shift from his glass, but he let Pierce see the ghost of a smile. 

"No," he said. "We kept the damaged one out for you." 

Pierce let himself laugh at that. 

"Lukin, you’ve been in the snow too long. Haven’t your balls frozen off yet?" he said, leaning back in his chair. "We could get you moved, you know. I hear Sochi is just beautiful. It’s not California, but is anywhere California, even California?"

After all, Pierce did not say, but they both knew, Lukin had no remaining reason to stay. 

Lukin’s implacable face cracked into a scowl. 

"American HYDRA—"

"Is in close communication with Moscow. We're all capitalists now," he said. "And our people—we’re the best. You can check with your superiors. The Soldier is coming with me. God bless President Yeltsin." 

Pierce let himself linger ever so slightly on that delicious definite article. It had been a long, slow time coming, but America always brought her men home. There was a persistent faction even in American HYDRA that thought the Soldier was a relic of the old world order—they were infatuated with the flicker of the TV on zombie-faces and screaming talk radio hosts. Pierce wouldn’t deny that the Information Age had changed the world—a Tomahawk missile cowed more efficiently when it flashed on television, after all. But, no matter how much artillery a man had to point at his enemies, he still needed his sidearm to keep his person safe in close quarters. Pierce had some big guns, but he could use the Soldier to solidify his place in HYDRA, and then use that place to keep the world on track.

That, and it would be nice to be able to play without having to go to fucking Siberia. 

There was so much fizzing possibility in his veins, an almost childlike glee that after a decade of these fucking Russians, the Soldier was about to be entirely his. 

Lukin drained his glass in a jerky motion. 

"Okay," he said. "Don’t have them send me to the beach."

The sudden surrender was disconcerting for a moment, but only just—Pierce was ultimately unsurprised. Lukin had never been fully deserving of the potential he’d had in the Soldier. 

"You don’t really have the complexion for a tan," Pierce agreed. Lukin flashed him a wolfish smile and clapped him on the shoulder as they both stood. They shared the camaraderie of men who had spent a long time hating each other and who were finally free of the need to pretend otherwise. 

Détente was a beautiful thing, but there was something especially sweet about being able to cut off relations entirely. 

"Come," Lukin said. "I will lead you to its cell. Perhaps I will get the privilege of finally seeing it kill you." 

Pierce could feel his whole face in his smile—he knew it was a good one, he’d seen it in his bathroom mirror. He paused long enough to drain his own glass of Johnnie Walker and followed Lukin through the dank little halls.

They passed the cell of each and every one of Lukin’s mad failed soldiers, and the knowledge of their emptiness buoyed him. They’d kept them in rooms somewhere between Manhattan studios and Sing Sing corner suites. The fucking Soviets, giving apartments to their weapons. 

It was the same teeter-totter between delusions they always had, the push and pull of Marxism-Leninism and Stalinism. If the Soviets weren’t convincing themselves that the sheer force of ideology would tame rabid beasts in the form of men, they were trying to centrally plan the fucking economy with brutal violence. They thought they could figure it all out, every little twitch of tissue in the human body and brain. They thought the fact that they picked loyal ideologues for this new experiment in the serum would be enough to keep the monsters under Party control. 

HYDRA was defined by order, but Pierce knew better than to think one could will a complex system into order through ideology alone. They had given the fuckers privacy, of all things—only a little window for the ever-present guards to peek in. Just enough for them to be entirely sure they were not equals to the rest of the soldiers, but not enough to cow them into obedience. 

_The_ Soldier, the damaged Soldier, the American, the original and definite article—his cell was composed of the thinnest bars that had the strength to contain him. There was nowhere to hide; even the cot was mere inches from the ground. The Soldier could barely get his pinky toe underneath it. He was not permitted the human luxury of solitude. There was nowhere that belonged to him—not the place he slept and certainly not the space between his ears. 

Lukin saluted back to the twin guards that were always stationed in this lonely hallway. They were on the very far side, their eyes and guns always watching. They hadn’t fully mastered the trick of having the Soldier keep himself in order. That was the American genius. A combination of commitment, ideology, and sheer fucking bribery and the masses would tame themselves.

It had been Pierce who taught the Soldier he couldn’t hide. He learned to control himself because that was what was expected of him. Pierce felt his chest warm with something like affection, seeing him again.

The Soldier was slumped against the far wall, dead center. Both of his hands were curled in his lap, the fingers in an almost graceful bow around an invisible apple. You could see the all-American boy he had once been, even with his skin turned sallow under bad lighting and a tragic lack of sun. Even in these the worst of conditions, one could almost see the Army propaganda he'd pose for, with that cleft-chin and well-muscled chest. Pierce consumed a steady diet of World War II literature, like most men of his generation and geopolitical interests, and something was thrilling about what HYDRA had made of one of America’s most storied war heroes. It was supposed to be a secret, but Pierce carried the truth of Bucky Barnes in his heart with deep satisfaction. It was the proof of concept of what would one day civilize the whole world.

His eyes seemed closed, but Pierce felt the glimmer of his consciousness underneath those lashes. Just enough for Pierce to know that he was being watched back and certainly that he was recognized. That was a pleasure in itself; not even twenty thousand volts of electricity could erase the patterns Pierce had coded into that corpse’s twitching automation. 

Pierce dismissed the Russians and they left with barely concealed eye-rolls. 

There was a folding chair against the wall of the hallway that the guards had been pointedly not leaning against. It had a layer of dust on it, but it fell easily when Pierce jerked it open. He felt no need to prove his manhood by staying on his feet, not after so many hours of travel. He had other ways to show off the size of his dick.

He pulled it up to about two feet from the bars. The Soldier did not budge, but Pierce didn’t find the stillness eerie. He was just showing off one of his many functions. He was an excellent sniper. 

"Hey there, soldier," he said. "Do you remember me?" 

His voice was almost gentle—it was audible, the way Pierce addressed him, that there was the potential for a nickname instead of just a call-sign. Pierce kept his eyes on the tendons in his neck, eager to see the soft twitching as the Soldier imperceptibly clenched his jaw. 

"It has been a while," Pierce said agreeably. 

There was a long silence and Pierce let it linger. He knew how keen the Soldier’s hearing was. He imagined that every one of his own body sounds was being cataloged and identified. The Russians barely acknowledged the Soldier nowadays. He was expected to function and complete his missions, but they found his emptiness disconcerting. When they tried to treat him with anything near human compassion, it would be mere hours before he was unmanageably aggressive. They hadn’t mastered the knack of housebreaking. It made sense that the Soldier was a little rusty with what it felt like to be spoken to instead of ordered. 

Finally, the Soldier’s eyes opened. He didn't have the canniness to pretend to wake from sleep. It took a theory of mind to be able to lie, and one needed to _have_ a mind for that. As they got reacquainted for yet another time after memory loss, Pierce would reinforce his hollow center and fill him entirely with conviction in Pierce’s omnipotence. 

Pierce knew everything, the Soldier had learned and would learn again, and he was a fearsome god. 

They made eye contact, just for a moment, before the Soldier’s eyes slid away like magnetic poles repelling. That was precisely right—it was crucial to have that breath of connection, where the Soldier could see a human face and find himself reflected there, just the hint of something. It was Pierce’s best bribe, eye contact, and one of his most effective tools of domination: the Soldier had been stripped down to the barest animal part of a person, and looking away was always submission. Pierce allowed himself the reward of the Soldier’s face—the tip of his nose, the almost comically inappropriate plushness of his lips. 

"Did I fail my mission?" 

His voice was soft and unexpected. 

"You know that failure is unacceptable," Pierce said. There was no surprise in his world, and even if he didn’t have the foggiest clue what the Soldier was referring to, he could not reveal that. He’d not been deployed since ’91, and he’d done a spectacular job of looking his old war buddy in the face and strangling his wife—it was one of Pierce’s most cherished memories. 

The Soldier nodded and ducked his head for a moment, before snapping his eyes back up to Pierce. He held eye-contact longer this time, something urgent in it. 

"But did I fail?" 

Pierce leaned forward in the chair, his own face intent. 

"Soldier," he said sharply. It had been a long time since he’d been in the military, but he’d given enough orders that he could see the man’s back straighten against the far wall. "Mission report." 

"Objective: train team such that they can defeat this weapon. Partial failure. Initial sparring session resulted in defeat, but escape was successful."

His voice had that same softness, even though his words were formal. Now that Pierce understood, he relaxed back against the thin metal back of his chair. There was something perversely delightful about the fact the Soldier had decided that when he saved Lukin’s life, it was mission failure. Nonetheless.

"You have misunderstood gravely," Pierce said. The Soldier’s eyebrows twitched together in consternation. Pierce could almost see him trying to work out his error with the guilelessness of a child. His brother had a pair of young boys, and it was always fascinating to watch them trying to figure out their world—each thing was carefully taken in hand, and they almost always ended up with strong opinions about what it meant for their purposes. In the self-centered mind of a child, everything was defined in terms of the self. The Soldier was incapable of that level of self-development. He puzzled through novelty, trying to work things out, but Pierce just had to wait a few moments more and, there—the Soldier met his eyes plaintively, asking for assistance. A third time today—perhaps this was excessive.

Pierce must explain, and he was the only one that would—the Soldier was given the fundamental satisfaction of a reason, and the correct hierarchy was reinforced, as he alone could never complete the journey into understanding. 

"You are HYDRA’s hound," Pierce said. "Dogs don’t do the training. Dogs don’t have teams. Humans train dogs, not the other way around.”

His voice was even. He was relaying bare facts. He could see the flicker of confusion cross the Soldier’s face. 

"I taught them," he said. 

Was this mourning? Betrayal? Affection? The Soldier was only capable of vestigial twitches of what might have been emotions in a person. It was sometimes hard to discern what he was reacting to and why—when Pierce now found himself trying to decode the minutia of his lost expression, he abruptly realized his mistake. 

He stood. The Soldier’s eyes followed him up. 

Another man, Pierce might have ordered him to attention, but that would have increased the confusion. It was always a delicate business, calibrating precisely how much humanity the soldier should be permitted. Today it was clear that they would need to reinforce loyalty in a more primordial way. It was nonsensical to expect shows of respect from a tool.

He opened the cell door and let the familiar frisson of delight that it could be kept unlocked pass through him, settle low in his gut. He wasn’t complaining about this type of maintenance. It was always good to enjoy one’s work. Maybe it was precisely what they both needed, on this first day of the next phase. 

Pierce let the heavy cell door sway behind him, not entirely closed. 

He walked up to the Soldier, one of his hands just in his pocket, not deep enough to ruin the line of his suit. His other hand reached down to grip the Soldier’s chin and jerk it up, then from side to side. He was filthy. 

"You’re disgusting," he said. There was no visible response. The Soldier took such statements as a neutral assessment of his current status. The thrill that gave Pierce was what let him know he wasn’t a sadist in the true sense of the word; his cock was getting heavy in his pants precisely because the Soldier could barely fathom pain or humiliation in this moment. This was like any training exercise; Pierce would push the Soldier until the point where even his dehumanization was shaken by the things that were done to him, and it would increase his capacity for the future. It was a methodical depletion of his sense of self. 

He let his fingers dig into the rough stubble on the Soldier’s face, enjoying the way he could see the blood pool and displace and change the color of his flesh, ever so subtly. 

“Would you like to be clean?” he murmured. 

“Yes,” the Soldier said. His eyes had drooped nearly closed, already falling into their familiar give and take. Pierce grinned.

"Up," he said. The Soldier rose to his feet with uncanny grace. Pierce turned his back on him, and he could feel his heart rate hasten at his own intoxicating gall. 

He carefully plucked out his cufflinks, tucked them in his pocket. He took the jacket off and frowned at the austere cell. For want of better options, he gently folded it on the cot. Without looking back at the soldier, he took his time rolling up his sleeves and carefully setting the cuffs. He twitched an imaginary fold out of where his shirt disappeared beneath his belt. 

Such methodicalness would be wasted in the coming minutes, but that was the difference between men and beasts, after all. One made one’s bed each morning, even if it would be mussed again at nightfall. 

"Strip," he said. He had to reach outside of the cell to snag the high-pressure hose they used to clean the Soldier. Carefully aiming it at the floor, he turned the lever on the nozzle and let the water flow. 

It splashed out with an angry static noise—he could see the water seep into the porous concrete, staining it dark. The water emerged with the sort of power that police might turn on inconvenient protesters, and even still, it took longer than it should to pool up and lap at the soles of his leather shoes. So much of the Soviet Union was made of materials that seemed impenetrable but were actually temporary. This concrete, like so much else, would crumble soon enough. 

When he faced the Soldier, he let his eyes examine every inch of his too-pale skin. It was amazing how little he scarred; his body was smooth, strangely perfect. If they angled him right, he could be an underwear model on a Times Square billboard. 

Today he stood a lazy parade rest, his hands clasped together behind his back and his gaze straight ahead. Some days he would shrink away, try to retain some sense of modesty, and some days he’d seem lost, looking blankly up at the ceiling. Pierce looked forward to acquiring more data about what shaped these patterns. 

Pierce turned the hose on him unceremoniously. The full-body flinch was an unsurprising reflex; even the mist and splatter from the water was freezing, being doused in it must be very unpleasant. 

The dirt sluiced quickly off of his skin; this was more efficient than teaching him to scrub himself. Pierce could see the water trickle away and down the drain with a hollow, gurgling sound. The water battered the Soldier’s skin and found the barest softness in him, distorting it into new shapes. He watched, even in the poor light, the skin pink up from the cold and the sting. 

He stepped near enough that he was getting splash-back off of the Soldier’s body. He could feel his shirt get damp, but he wanted a better view as he took the hose down.

The vibration of the water went all the way up Pierce’s arm; he could feel the work of his muscles, holding it stable on the Soldier’s belly. Pierce could see his abdominal muscles twitching in erratic patterns, similar to when he was pumped full of electricity. There had been a clear downward trajectory to Pierce’s action, an unapologetic purpose—but when Pierce glanced at the Soldier’s face, he maintained indifference. The twitches of expression didn’t seem like a man fighting off his grimace; it was a body rebelling even over the most finely tuned obedience. The body was more powerful than anyone liked to admit: that’s what made it so compelling as a tool of coercion. The Soldier’s mind was unreliable, and so, Pierce had to teach him somewhere more fundamental. He knew more than most that the body would tell in the end. 

He kept his eyes on the Soldier's face as he moved the high-pressure hose onto his genitals. He could see the startled way his eyes opened wide and the way his chest deflated, his shoulders hunching inward. 

Pierce moved even closer to the Soldier, increasing the pounds-per-inch by decreasing the distance. It was physics, and the struggle on the Soldier’s face was biology, and the relish that Pierce felt was politics, or near enough. 

"That hurts, huh," Pierce said. The Soldier either understood there was no need to reply or he just was unable to—Pierce let his gaze drop. The Soldier’s penis was being battered by the water, twitching and moving in undignified flutters—it must be like being pricked with needles and kicked in the balls at the same time. 

Something was appealing about the flagrant absurdity of his pretense for this pain. 

"What am I doing to you right now, Soldier?" he asked, suddenly intrigued about what the response would be. 

He was close enough that he could see the Soldier’s breath quicken and the uncertain way he checked Pierce’s expression. He knew it was a trick question, at least enough to be alarmed by it. 

The Soldier licked his lips and finally said, "Hygiene." 

The answer was unexpectedly infuriating—the Soldier shouldn’t have enough brain to be placating. Pierce dropped the hose still shooting water—it flailed under its own power, spraying them both in freezing cold and erratic jerks, like a dying thing. 

He reached down and grabbed the Soldier's balls, squeezing gently enough that it must feel like a relief at first. Pierce watched closely as he clamped his hand down and saw the pain spread across the Soldier’s face. 

"What am I doing?" he asked again. 

"Hurting me." The answer was instant, forced out through his clenched jaw. He was trembling with the pain, tiny uncoordinated shudders of each superhuman muscle. 

When Pierce released the pressure, the Soldier pitched forward into a soft gasp. 

Pierce didn’t let it linger and slapped him a couple times, more to signal his presence than to cause any significant pain. His dick was starting its rapid side through the normal human bruise healing process—the initial angry injured-red faded quickly into a dark purple, his dick swelling up with something entirely different than arousal. 

It was astonishing. So many men cared so much about their cocks—surely, no other body part was treated with the same outsized importance. Pierce wouldn’t dream of holding a cock in his hand if the owner was capable of understanding that, if he knew all the things a dick could mean and what it meant it to be a man—but the Soldier couldn’t possibly layer together that level of complicated social meaning. All he had were the dull animal pain and pleasure signals; it was sensitive, but so were other parts, and there was an almost innocent human comfort in Pierce gently cradling the injured cock in his hand. He ran his thumb over the Soldier’s head, his wrinkled foreskin distorted under the strain of the swelling. 

The Soldier’s breathing was noisy now, for him, but still barely audible. The unpredictable hiss and splash of the hose spurting out drowned it as it drowned their feet. 

It was extravagantly wasteful, letting the water run, and he’d surely ruin his shoes. His dick throbbed, and when he shifted his weight he could feel the way damp fabric dragged over sensitive flesh. 

The Soldier’s skin prickled with goosebumps—the air was cold, the water was cold, his dick would shrivel after the injured swelling faded, likely never passing through anything approaching the arousal that was clutching at Pierce’s gut. 

He had the initial instinct to fight his urgency. There was so much more he could do, so many different paces he could put the Soldier through—but the realization burst like joy in his memory: the Soldier was coming back with him. He had nothing but time. 

He manhandled the Soldier toward the wall and pushed him over—the Soldier went, even though if he wanted to, a Chevrolet would likely dent if it hit him. It just wound Pierce up further, making his skin ache from lust. 

Pierce propelled the Soldier’s face into the wall, wondering if he could fuck him hard enough to abrade the skin. 

"Reach behind you and hold your cheeks open," Pierce said. 

His voice was low and had the blinkered focus of desire. Pierce was showing dominance over the Soldier in the animal way and conditioning through pain, but it was hitting Pierce just as hard, bringing him down to something both more and less than human. 

The Soldier’s obedience was perfect, unthinkingly quick. His flesh and metal hands both grasped the meat of his ass and pulled it wide. 

When Pierce saw his asshole, he pushed his thumb into it without a thought for any resistance. The Soldier didn’t flinch. That was nothing, he supposed. The Soldier couldn’t know what a violation that was, he couldn’t understand vulnerability. A person was vulnerable when the security that was their due was breached—the Soldier had no expectation that his body belonged to him. 

Pierce slapped him, watching the hole twitch. He rubbed the place where he had just hit with the pads of his fingers and then dug his nails in, enjoying the indents it made. The knife in its holster at the small of his back felt heavy—he had tools, and the Soldier responded beautifully to torture, all his strength useless. But, Pierce was impatient. He wanted him.

Even if the Soldier couldn’t fully understand the beauty of it, there was only one way this could end. He ran his palm down the divot of the Soldier’s spine, wetting his skin with the remaining water, and then got his dick out—it wasn’t much as lube, but it would be enough that _he_ would feel mostly pleasant sensations. 

He pressed the head of his dick against the Soldier’s tight, unstretched hole but didn’t force his way in. He could feel the way he was clenching his teeth all the way up to his temples and a churning heat in his gut. 

Rocking his hips, he bumped against the Soldier almost playfully—he would be teasing a woman, but now he was only teasing himself, less with the promise of the hot insides he was going to fuck into momentarily and more with the perfect knowledge that this was entirely his creation and he was the only one experiencing this as it was, as sex. He was basically masturbating, and that was the thought that let him fuck the Soldier, skin dragging against skin with the same promising resistance that a scab has when you pull it off a wound too quickly. 

It was so fucking tight—almost too tight. Every muscle the Soldier had was working against the intrusion. The body knew, even if the mind didn’t—that was the whole principle of the thing right there—and Pierce felt it like a vise, from dick to belly. 

He was very wet, at this point, his fine cotton dress shirt nearly transparent and rubbing against his nipples in a way that sent shivers right down to his dick. It wasn’t going to take long, not long at all. 

"You’re unsatisfactory," he told the Soldier, and he couldn’t keep the heat from his tone, failing utterly at clinical reserve. "When we get back, you’re going to have to work on this." 

He shoved his way into the Soldier's body and let his imagination spiral away from him—he could stretch this out, mold the physical constraints of this body even more into what he needed. He was going to change the Soldier into precisely what he needed, and the Soldier was going to kill for him, and the Soldier was going to take his dick and—

He came with a grunt like an exaltation and ground his hips into the Soldier luxuriantly, letting his balls drain in precisely the way he wanted. 

Pulling out with a sigh, he patted the Soldier on the flank. The Soldier jerked away, ever so slightly, but in Pierce’s post-coital lassitude, it just made him grin. 

"Your new task of self-maintenance is to increase your flexibility."

He smiled down at Bucky’s hole. His hands, one metal and one flesh, were digging cruelly hard into the meat of his own ass, and all the damage Pierce did was cleanly on display. It was puffy, swollen—Pierce’s come was visibly leaking. Another man would be bleeding. When Pierce slapped him, abrupt and without warning, he could see the shock go up the Soldier’s spine.

"Here," he said. "This is what you must develop. Let’s start now."

Taking hold of the famous metal arm, the weapon that made this man the Solder, he pulled it as gently as if he was leading a child by the hand. The Soldier let him move it, let him push two of the Soldier's own fingers into his ass and then shove them deeper in. 

"Hold this position," he said. He scratched his belly and stepped back to observe his handiwork—the Soldier, face still pressed against the wall, two fingers in his own ass. There was a trickle of white liquid visible on his thigh. 

He leaned down and turned off the nozzle of the hose. Hefting it lightly in his hand, he considered the tableau. 

“How do you feel, Soldier?” Pierce asked. 

“It hurts, sir,” he said, without shame. “But I am functional.” 

Pierce had never known the Bucky Barnes that had been—all his knowledge had been gleaned from old HYDRA files and American propaganda—but he’d known plenty of young military men and he could put together a reasonably clear picture. He had undoubtedly been cocky. He was good-looking and robust, palling around with a superhero, the best sniper on the Western Front. He would have given favor and taken life with the same effortless panache. It had given him a base of confidence to resist all the pain the early HYDRA experiments and torture had put him through. 

The files were very clear; it had taken years to break Bucky Barnes. He had been very stoic, to the point of sheer, irrational bullheadedness. It was something to take pride in, a charming American kid like that holding up so well against the worst the Germans and Soviets could do. 

“Tell me again, Soldier. How do you feel?” 

“It hurts, sir,” he repeated. He did not continue. Pierce was obscurely frustrated that the debasement would stop there, that the Soldier was not capable of pleading for the pain to stop. 

“That’s right,” Pierce said. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’ve been very good for me.” 

That got a reaction—his head dropped further, his long hair hanging over his face as if to try and conceal. Pierce reached out and gently tucked it behind his ear. 

“What have you been, Soldier?” he said tenderly. “One more time, say it for me.” 

“I was good,” he said. It was notable how much hoarser his voice was, how it had lost the deceptive mildness of moments before. 

“That’s right,” Pierce said, rubbing the Soldier’s human shoulder. “You were very good.” 

His hand was firm, assured. He did not hesitate. The pain and then the pleasure, both came from Pierce’s hands. 

“You made me feel good, too, you know that? Don’t try to understand fully what happened, but know this: it was good. You made me feel good,” he said. He kept the cadence of his voice relaxed and soothing, hoping it would slip right underneath the Soldier’s limited cognition and embed itself into his marrow. 

Pierce could feel the Soldier sway into his touch, barely shifting his weight but notably eager for the kindness. 

“Come on, then,” he said. “Let’s get you the rest of the way cleaned up. Take your fingers out of your ass and stand up.” 

The Soldier straightened. His hair was wet, plastered on his cheek and temple, a flattened section where it died against the concrete. His eyes were wide, confused, and there was this sweet little twist to his mouth. Pierce came close enough that they could kiss, if that weren’t incoherence itself. 

He fixed the Soldier’s hair, combing it out and putting it back in some semblance of order. Even through the water, there was the slippery feeling of grease underneath his fingertips. A blast of cold water out of a hose wasn’t actually going to do all that much to clean him, not in the way he really needed. It was all he was going to get at the moment, though. Pierce let his knuckles run down the Soldier’s cheek, feeling the rasp of his facial hair. He really was a beautiful creature. 

The Soldier’s eyes closed. 

Pierce took his hand away and unbuttoned his sopping wet dress shirt, leaving himself in a simple cotton tee. It, too, was wet, leaving none of his fifty-year-old body to the imagination. In another context, he would be concerned with his appearance in front of this perpetually young Adonis, but that’s why Pierce didn’t bother fucking anyone else. The Soldier wasn’t even capable of caring. 

He took his abandoned shirt, lightly warmed from his body and smelling unavoidably of his sweat, and pressed it up against the Soldier’s face, using it to cover the stubble on his cheeks and upper neck. He held it there as the Soldier’s eyes crept open, puzzled. It was a strange inverse image of his mask—soft, classic white, with almost invisible blue pinstripes. Pierce simply waited a moment, holding it against the Soldier, and the Soldier’s eyes eased shut once more. 

His nostrils flared, and an echo of heat hit Pierce—the Soldier was scenting him. 

After a moment, the Soldier reached up with his flesh hand to hold the shirt in place of his own accord. It was initiative that Pierce might sometimes condemn, but in this moment—good. Let him look to Pierce for comfort. 

Pierce used his free hand to unsheathe his fiberglass knife from the small of his back. He tested the sharpness on his own forearm and effortlessly sliced away a patch of hair. It’d do. 

When he moved to take away the shirt pressed against the Soldier’s face, his fingers clamped down on the fabric. 

“You can keep it,” he said, amused. “Put it down.” 

The Soldier slowly did, revealing his open and strangely innocent face, the scraggly beginnings of his beard a reminder of exactly who and what he was. Pierce was going to free them both from it— it felt necessary the Soldier should be pretty. 

The black of his blade was stark against his pale skin. He didn’t flinch when Pierce scraped the edge of it against the grain of his hair. He was gentle as he could be, but he wasn’t worried when the blade slipped slightly, in the complicated stretch of skin where his chin dipped before becoming his cheek. It left a cut that waited for several breaths before bursting red—it was a beautiful addition to the color palette. 

Pierce could feel the Soldier’s breath on his cheek; it reeked. The only reason why his teeth weren’t rotting out was the serum—a nice little side benefit, that. If the Soldier wasn’t going to flinch away from the blade, Pierce wouldn’t flinch from the smell. Training was always a give and take. 

Once Pierce had made his way all around the Soldier’s face, he brought the shirt the Soldier was holding back up to his face, wiped stray hair and traces of blood away. Red bloomed in the wet fabric of the shirt, following the fibers into a halo of color. 

He had missed a spot on the Soldier’s cheekbone. He reached up once more and shaved it off, following the knife with his thumb. 

“There,” he said. He stepped away suddenly and smiled at the way the Soldier extended his hand to follow him, reflexive. 

“No,” Pierce said firmly, and the Soldier snatched his own hand back, making a fist at his side. “You don’t grab me, not ever.” 

The Soldier nodded. His mouth was faintly parted and there was a little bit of color in his cheeks. Blood trickled down the divot in his chin and along the skin of his throat, like proof his insides were connected to his outsides. Pierce followed the path of that blood with eyes and then lower still, enjoying the planes of the Soldier’s body. The Soldier was hard. Pierce sucked in a breath through his teeth, delighted. His dick was swollen twice over now—the remnants of the abuse he’d been put through earlier and new pleasure. The Soldier could get tortured for a century, and still, just a little contact was enough to get him going. Humans were really marvelous creatures: utterly irrepressible. 

Pierce reached down and grazed it with his fingertips, feeling the heat of blood underneath the skin, the way the skin bulged out with the force of all that had happened to him. 

“This is what your loyalty earns,” Pierce said. “Repeat it to me.” 

“This is what my loyalty earns,” the Soldier said. His voice wasn’t as neutral as it usually was; there was a residue of emotion in it, something that made him squeeze his eyes shut. Pierce didn’t know what he was feeling and didn’t much care; the Soldier didn’t know either. 

He let his fingers dip underneath the Soldier’s penis, taking a moment to tug his balls—they were swollen, as well. Every hidden piece of his body was tender and worked over. There were so many things Pierce could do in this moment, so many different routes to take. He could take his knife to the Soldier’s body and leave his skin in ribbons, carve HYDRA’s name into his flesh. He could bring the hose back, shatter this lassitude with frigid water. He could have the Soldier kneel and take his cock into that lovely mouth and hold it until Pierce could manage to get it up again. A lifetime of options and the only problem was where to start. 

His hands idly explored between the Soldier’s legs, considering if he could cut on a cock this swollen without causing an unexpected amount of bleeding. He stroked the fold of skin just before the Soldier’s hole; the Soldier flinched, hard, his chin jerking down as if to protect his neck. 

Ah, there it is. Pierce knew that the path forward would become apparent to him, if he only let himself think. He dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the floor. The Soldier's eyes dropped to it for just a moment, startled by the noise. He used his now free hand to cup the side of the Soldier's face, bringing his attention fully back on Pierce.

“I told you before that you must work on your flexibility, yes?” Pierce said. The Soldier blinked at him; Pierce took that as acknowledgment enough. “You are to masturbate yourself to completion as often as you like when you come back with me. No one will stop you. But you must only do so with this.” 

He caressed the puffy rim of the Soldier’s hole, feeling flakes of his own come. 

“This is my gift to you, Soldier,” he said. “You will learn to take joy in this service, as we all must learn to enjoy our lots in life.” 

Pierce could read the Soldier’s hesitancy in the minutia of his body. He shifted his stance and prepared himself, guiding them both back a few steps away from the wall. His hands gripped the Soldier’s hips—it was almost as if they were dancing. 

“I’ll show you the technique,” Pierce said. “That’s an important thing to remember. I will always expect the greatest things from you. You must never fail. But you will be supplied with the tools necessary to succeed. Only you are responsible for any failures.”

The Soldier nodded. 

“Bring your hand to your mouth and suck on two fingers until they are wet,” Pierce said. The Soldier followed the instructions he was given, with his flesh hand. This close, Pierce could hear the slick sounds of his mouth moving and see the subtle spread of moisture in the fold of the Soldier’s lips. He found himself holding his breath so he could hear the nuances better: the working of his tongue to generate more liquid, the squelch of air being displaced between wet flesh. Pierce's fascination was as if through a magnifying glass; he felt removed, no longer in the florid bloom of his own desire and with no chance anytime soon of his erection returning, but also focused with pinpoint precision on what was happening here. It was enough to get him moving—he couldn't let himself linger in this attraction. 

“Enough,” Pierce said. “Use one of those fingers and insert it into yourself.”

The Soldier’s eyes were open, a hazy blue, and Pierce grabbed a handful of his hair, firmly twisting the strands around his fingers, and guided his head to rest on Pierce’s shoulder. They both had to shift their postures: Pierce braced himself, and the Soldier’s torso twisted, his shoulder rising with the movement of his hand. Pierce could feel the Soldier’s mouth open against the wet fabric of his undershirt at the same moment he witnessed the finger sink into his body. 

Pierce intended to give more detailed instructions, guiding him through what it meant to pleasure himself in this way. Pierce wouldn’t dream of doing this himself, to the Soldier or anyone else, but he paid attention. He’d fucked a male prostitute or two, in his time, and watched them prepare. When that was his best option, there was no harm in using an object as they were meant to be used. But Pierce didn’t need to use any of this expertise—he watched the Soldier as he fucked himself on his own accord, adjusting the angle and finding a way to make it good. 

He wasn’t loud and his movements were modest, but the small movements of his wrist were alluring. There was a history, here—someone had taught him this, or he had taught himself,— but —it didn’t fit, not with what he knew of Bucky Barnes, that gleaming American soldier, and it didn’t make sense with the Soldier he now was. Neither of them should have had any of this knowledge in the recesses of their mind, but the body in his arms was undeniably going through familiar motions. The Soldier gave himself another finger and shuddered, grunting in the back of his throat. 

Pierce dug his fingers into the Soldier’s scalp, gripping his hair so hard he could feel the give of strands being ripped from his head. He didn’t want to make him stop, and he wouldn’t; this was still part of the process. He was going to make the Soldier his, body and soul. He was going to use the Soldier’s body and his violence and everything about him; he was going to hollow the Soldier out even more, taking his innards piece by piece into there was nothing left. Even this would become his, he knew it would—Pierce had a way of getting what he wanted. 

The Soldier’s hips stuttered in a minuscule movement, a pale approximation of fucking. But while he was in Pierce’s arms like this, it rocked his dick against Pierce’s thigh. It was intolerable—Pierce could feel the heat of his cock even through the clammy fabric of his pants, and he thought they might be getting wetter, that the Soldier might be about to come all over him—

With a burst of violence, Pierce shifted and slammed his knee up between the Soldier’s legs, dropping him and backing up with an alacrity that he would be ashamed for anyone to witness. The Soldier wasn’t a witness; he wasn’t anything. He was curled up on the floor, panting hard, still penetrating himself on his own fingers. He had moaned, at the point of contact, and his whole body was shaking from it—Pierce smelled his release before he saw it, the semen on his own stomach, the trace of it on Pierce’s thigh. Pierce stared at it as if its heat would turn all the water on his body to steam. He glanced at the Soldier and saw that he was still fingering himself, always following orders. A computer running through its code. 

Pierce watched him until he could tear his eyes away and then rubbed the flat of his palm against his own thigh, ridding himself of the trace of the Soldier. He wiped it off on the concrete wall and pulled his undershirt away from his skin, a pantomime of putting himself together. 

The Soldier stayed curled up on the floor. Pierce decided that he wouldn’t tell him to stop; he’d wait for him to be forced and then punish him next time. It was clear they needed to start with a punishment. 

He grabbed his suit jacket, unharmed from its position on the Soldier’s cot. It would do nothing to conceal the disaster of Pierce’s suit, but it wasn’t the first time he’d emerged from the Soldier’s cell disheveled. He’d mastered a route back to his apartment on base that he could take unobserved. He left the cell and closed the door behind him. It was unlocked; it didn’t need to be locked. The Soldier was an obedient nothing. He folded the chair and put it back. 

He picked up his briefcase and hesitated for a moment, considering. His original little bribe had been a candy bar, brought all the way from America, but he had a burst of uncertainty. He wasn’t sure when the Snickers had been invented. He decided against it, for now; he had already treated the Soldier with more sufferance than he could even begin to deserve. 

“Thank you,” the Soldier said, jolting Pierce back to attention. He was still a naked wet mess on the floor, curled up, two fingers inserted into his rectum. His eyes glittered under heavy lashes, not quite looking at Pierce but clearly observing him. He was pathetic; he was contemptible. He didn’t even know enough to feel shame. 

Pierce left. He felt no disquiet and no constraint. He was untouchable, in this base, and soon enough the whole HYDRA hierarchy would realize it. Soon enough, he’d bring the Soldier home.

It was only when he unbuckled an empty sheath to shower that he realized he had left his fiberglass knife in the Soldier's cell. His mind supplied the image of it poorly concealed in the palm of the Soldier's metal hand, flashing with the same dull gleam as his eyes.


End file.
